


A Prelude and Three Codas to "Catch the Rain"

by Itsallfine



Series: Brollylock [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Play, Anal Sex, Crack, Don't Try This At Home, First Time, Getting Together, Hand Jobs, Humor, Inanimate Objects, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Sorry Not Sorry, Tumblr Prompt, actually a little proud, brollylock, but still mostly ashamed, one day I will write real things again, this hiatus really needs to end, we have clearly all gone 'round the bend
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-16
Updated: 2015-06-16
Packaged: 2018-04-04 18:25:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,718
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4148226
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Itsallfine/pseuds/Itsallfine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Weirdly hot umbrella porn and one very scarred Mycroft.<br/>Or,<br/>Four short ficlets to answer the burning questions left after Catch the Rain: Why did John have lube in the drawer by his chair? What happened after John walked in? Did the umbrella ever get used again? And, most importantly—did Mycroft ever find out what became of his beloved umbrella?</p><p>Should probably read Catch the Rain first, but it's not strictly necessary.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Prelude and Three Codas to "Catch the Rain"

**Author's Note:**

> I apparently just can't let this go.
> 
> Unbetaed, because I didn't want to put them through that experience again. It's in good shape, though. 
> 
> [Librarylock](http://librarylock.tumblr.com) on tumblr, if you can stomach me after this.

  
**Prelude**  
  
Sherlock’s umbrella was a piece of shit.  
  
Granted, any umbrella would be after being subjected to a series of experiments on acid rain, but this one was easily the worst John had ever seen. Its canopy hung in tatters, its spindly ribs jutting out every which way. The handle was the only part that had survived relatively unscathed. It was simple and polished, made of dark wood, with a well-worn button for deploying the umbrella set into one side.  
  
It was this handle that Sherlock had been slowly stroking for the past twenty minutes.  
  
John sat in his chair, ostensibly reading a terrible crime novel, but completely unable to tear his eyes away from Sherlock’s elegant fingers as they swept over the umbrella handle. A slow, leisurely slide up to the tip, then a gentle slide straight to the bottom. Occasionally, a pause to circle the nub of the button with a thumb or long middle finger. John could feel his cheeks heating and forced himself to look away. Then there was a loud _thwack_ as Sherlock pressed the button to extend the canopy.  
  
John gritted his teeth.  
  
“Sherlock,” he said in his most reasonable, definitely not turned-on voice. “Didn’t Mummy ever tell you not to open umbrellas indoors?”  
  
“She also told me it would bring bad luck. If you’re planning to quote more pedestrian nonsense at me, allow me to save you the time.” He stood, closing the umbrella and dropping it into his desk chair. “Going out,” he added, then swept from the flat with his coat over his arm. The street-level door slammed shut a moment later.  
  
John sat for a long moment. Then another.  
  
Then he dashed up the stairs to his room, grabbed the lube from his bedside table, and returned to the sitting room. He was already imagining a long, leisurely wank in his chair while glaring at that umbrella.  
  
Except Sherlock had returned. He stood with the refrigerator door open, his back to the sitting room. John quickly slid the lube into the drawer next to his chair while Sherlock’s back was turned, cursing the infuriating man and the hard-on he’d inspired.  
  
“Thought you were going out,” he said, settling back into his chair with the novel on his lap.  
  
“Changed my mind,” Sherlock said, just as a rumble of thunder rolled through the air outside. He turned to John with an unreadable expression.  
  
“Looks like rain today.”  
  
John breathed in through his nose and tried not to groan.  
  
  
**Coda #1**  
  
A part of John acknowledged that he should feel weird whipping his cock out in front of Sherlock, but he was already so hard he didn’t think he could wait. Walking in, seeing Sherlock coming, his flushed cheeks, spilling over his hand, his come all over the umbrella—fucking with Mycroft by defiling his umbrella was secondary to the need for John to get off. Preferably with Sherlock in attendance. The umbrella merely provided a convenient excuse.  
  
John fell to his knees across from Sherlock, positioning himself over the opposite side of the umbrella. He had to shove his jeans down a bit to pull himself completely out, already too hard for easy maneuvering, and a groan escaped him at the first stroke of his hand. Sherlock’s eyes snapped to his at the sound, his pupils blown wide. John’s breath caught, and his cock gave a twitch in his hand.  
  
He couldn’t help it; John’s eyes drifted down as he stroked, following the long line of Sherlock’s neck, the sharp lines of his collar bones, the expensive fabric stretched across his chest. Then lower; his cock was still half hard in his hand, a bit of come smeared on the tip. His pants were still pooled around his knees, and John groaned aloud and stroked faster at the memory of where the curved umbrella handle had been. He could perfectly imagine himself there, his fingers, _God_ , his cock—  
  
A blur of motion, then the click of a cap, and suddenly a warm body was pressed all along his back. A lubed hand reached around from behind him to stroke his cock in a slick, gloriously tight grip, and John gasped, nearly coming at the first touch. Soft curls brushed against his face as Sherlock leaned down to mouth at the spot where his jaw met his neck.  
  
“God, John,” Sherlock rumbled in his ear, his voice sending a shot of arousal straight to John’s cock. He stroked faster, his breath panting harsh in John’s ear. “You feel so good in my hand. I want to see you. Come for me, please, John, please,” Sherlock begged, his words spilling out in a whispered rush. A second hand crept around John’s front, running up the front of his shirt, brushing a nipple, pinching, then _harder_ , then lower, lower, until it pressed into his pants and found his balls. John spread his legs as far as he could, tipping his head back onto Sherlock’s shoulder as the grip on his cock sped, tightened, and the hand in his pants brushed against his balls, then farther to _press, ah!_ —  
  
John cried out as the tight arousal in his stomach flared, and he came _hard_ , fucking into Sherlock’s tight grip. His come spilled over Sherlock’s hand and shot onto the black fabric of the umbrella, mixing with Sherlock’s own and staining the canopy. The orgasm was intense, and when it was over he collapsed back against Sherlock’s chest, breathing hard.  
  
Sherlock’s arms wrapped around John’s middle, and he turned his face into the crook of John’s neck, pressing a kiss there.  
  
“Okay?” Sherlock asked.  
  
“Oh, God, yes,” John said, and turned to pull him in for a kiss.  
  
  
**Coda #2**  
  
“We are never getting rid of this umbrella,” John said as he watched Sherlock work the tip of the polished, curved handle inside himself. The handle dripped with an excessive amount of lube, and it slid in easily. John had already prepared the way with his tongue, after all.  
  
Sherlock lay on his back in the sitting room, panting, the top of the umbrella clutched in both hands at chest level. The slick nylon taffeta of the canopy brushed gently along his cock as he rocked the umbrella gently inside himself. The hook-shaped handle had nearly the exact curve as the sleek silicon prostate stimulator Sherlock kept in his bedside drawer, though it brought the added thrill that came with desecrating something of Mycroft’s. It certainly got the job done.  
  
John slicked up his cock, shuffled forward on his knees, then curled a finger around the curve of the umbrella and gently eased it from Sherlock’s entrance. He repositioned it so the handle lightly cradled Sherlock’s balls, holding them up and out of the way while John lined himself up. He met Sherlock’s eyes, checking in, and the corner of Sherlock’s mouth turned up in response.  
  
John smiled back, and sank home.  
  
“Ah, yeah, God,” he panted, pressing his way in as slowly as he could stand. He held himself still for as long as he could, then: “Can I—”  
  
“Fuck me,” Sherlock demanded, and John was only too happy to comply.  
  
John tucked a hand under each of Sherlock’s knees and drew back, then thrust in, building up to the demanding rhythm he knew Sherlock liked, watching the spot where his cock disappeared into Sherlock’s body. It was all still a bit new for them, new enough that John felt the desperate edge come up fast with the novelty of it all. He leaned forward a bit to bring his weight down on Sherlock, trapping the umbrella between them and rubbing the smooth fabric across Sherlock’s cock with each thrust. Sherlock’s panting gasps changed pitch, came faster, and John shifted his angle just a bit—  
  
(And slow footsteps echoed up from the stairwell, drawing closer, plenty audible even over the fucking)  
  
—and Sherlock threw his head back, gasping, “This is it, now, now, do it now—” and John felt Sherlock contracting around him as he started to come, drawing John with him. John thrust once more, twice, then pulled out with a cry to come all over the umbrella just as the door to the flat swung open.  
  
Mrs. Hudson gasped and covered her mouth, eyes wide and unblinking.  
  
Sherlock, John, and the umbrella were silent for a long moment.  
  
John cleared his throat awkwardly.  
  
“Um. Sorry,” he said, still holding Sherlock open by his knees. “We thought you were Mycroft.”  
  
Mrs. Hudson blinked, then backed away slowly.  
  
The door clicked shut quietly behind her.  
  
  
**Coda #3**  
  
Mycroft had never seen Anthea hesitate before. And yet.  
  
“What is it?” he asked her, staring with a hint of trepidation at her tapping pinky finger. It was her only tell, and it only showed itself when she was supremely uncomfortable.  
  
Very little in the world made Anthea uncomfortable.  
  
She took a breath in through her nose and lifted her chin.  
  
“Your brother and Dr. Watson found the camera you placed under the edge of the mirror above their mantle. Before they removed it, they …” She paused, shuddered. “I’m not sure you actually want to see this, sir.” She handed over a nondescript flash drive, labeled simply: _burn this_.  
  
“Thank you, Anthea. I will take your warning under advisement.”  
  
To anyone else, it would appear that Anthea turned and strode confidently from the room, cool and professional. Mycroft could see it for what it was: a hasty retreat.  
  
He turned the flash drive over in his hands for a moment, considering, then plugged it into his computer. It would be prudent to at least know the general direction of his brother’s immature retaliation. He opened the single video file on the drive and clicked ‘play’.  
  


* * *

  
When Anthea returned an hour later to deliver a set of case files, she opened the door to find Mycroft cradling his head in his hands, shirt cuffs unbuttoned and rolled up, a glass of scotch beside his elbow. Flames crackled in the fireplace, despite the summer heat.  
  
Anthea placed the files on the corner of his desk and turned to leave.  
  
“Anthea,” he called to her, his voice muffled.  
  
She paused and glanced back. “Yes?”  
  
Mycroft looked up at her then. His eyes were haunted.  
  
“Order me a new umbrella.”  
  


**Author's Note:**

> All formal protests can be lodged at my tumblr: [Librarylock](http://librarylock.tumblr.com).


End file.
